


(gold's) the skin of the gods

by doji_oji



Series: superomens [2]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Supernatural
Genre: Angst and Humor, Aziraphale is an offscreen badass, Friendship, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Hurt/Comfort, Two Crowleys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-10
Updated: 2017-10-10
Packaged: 2019-01-15 18:38:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12326613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doji_oji/pseuds/doji_oji
Summary: It’s a wendigo, because of course it is. And it goes balls-up, of course it does, because it seems to Dean that every single wendigo hunt they’ve ever done has gone balls-up, and why should this one be an exception?Now Sam is who the fuck knows where (notdeadnotdeadnotdead) and Dean is lying at the bottom of an abandoned mineshaft with two broken legs and the tip of an iron rod sticking out of his stomach. He’s going to die at Winchester Lake, and he’d laugh if his mouth wasn’t full of blood.





	(gold's) the skin of the gods

**Author's Note:**

> More Superomens garbage, because I'm a sucker for Dean/Crowley

In spite of what some people might think (actually, mostly Sam. Actually, only Sam) might think, Dean Winchester is not, in fact, an idiot. He doesn’t have the kind of smarts that get things like full rides to Stanford (Crowley once told him, in a moment of drunken honesty, that Dean was the smartest human he’d ever met, which felt somehow both like a compliment and an insult at the same time; but either way, Dean’s pretty sure it was just the wine talking); but people are just as easy to read as books, and often far more interesting. Angels a little less so, but they’re far less inscrutable than they like to think.

It only takes Dean a few months to learn Crowley off by heart. The first thing he realises, which is probably obvious to anyone who spends more than twenty-four hours with the guy, is that Crowley is about one percent prickly exterior, and ninety-nine percent gooey marshmallow middle. Still, Dean’s pretty sure Crowley would rather slam shots of holy water than do girly shit like talking about _feelings_. Which suits Dean fine, because it means that now, when Sam tries to initiate chick-flick moments, he’s invariably outnumbered.

Another thing Dean realises soon enough, and the one that still has him stumped, even after over half a year, is that when he or Sam are injured, it’s always Aziraphale who heals them, usually with a quick two-finger touch to the forehead, a brisk, “There we are, right as rain,” and a hearty clap on the shoulder. Crowley is usually content to stand back and let him handle it, and Dean figures Crowley’s squeamish (God knows that if he’d spent thousands of years in Hell, he’d probably go green at the sight of blood too), or that maybe he lost his ability to heal when he fell. He brought Sam back to life, but that’s something else. Satan works in mysterious ways, et cetera. Either way, it seems rude to ask, so he doesn’t bring it up.

Until fucking Buyck, Minnesota.

It’s a wendigo, because of course it is. And it goes balls-up, _of course_ it does, because it seems to Dean that every single wendigo hunt they’ve ever done has gone balls-up, and why should this one be an exception?

They tracked it miles through the backwoods to Winchester Lake, of all the fucking places. Sam laughed when he saw it on the map, and made Dean take a picture of him in front of the sign. Now Sam is who the fuck knows where (notdeadnotdeadnotdead) and Dean is lying at the bottom of an abandoned mineshaft with two broken legs and the tip of an iron rod sticking out of his stomach. He’s going to die at Winchester Lake, and he’d laugh if his mouth wasn’t full of blood. What a fucking way to go, he thinks. Not rescuing kids from a burning house or sacrificing himself to take down a monster. Just waiting to drown in his own blood, down in a pit in the ass-end of nowhere. _Ignominious_ , Aziraphale would call it, because he’s the kind of person that uses words like _ignominious_ in everyday conversation.

Dean really wishes Aziraphale were here right now. Then he realises, belatedly, that he’s a fucking idiot (and who ever said Crowley knew anything, really?).

He hates praying. It always feels needy, and vaguely rude, like he’s demanding Az and/or Crowley drop everything and come running (which, okay, he usually _is_ , but that’s beside the point). After all, they have lives. Weird, immortal lives, but still. The world does not turn on an axis of Sam and Dean Winchester. Calling makes it feel more casual--like they’re just regular people, and not ageless, impossibly powerful beings who are older than the universe and could probably vaporise him with a thought. But Dean’s pretty sure that even if his phone did somehow survive the trip down, which seems unlikely, the chances of him a) being able to get it out of his back pocket without killing himself, and b) actually getting a signal down here are slim to none. Also, he’s been impaled. He’s allowed a little impoliteness.

So he screws his eyes up, curls his hands into fists, and grits out, “Az--please. Help. I need you.”

For a moment, nothing happens, and Dean wants to scream and pound the earth, except he can’t fucking move. Then, somewhere in the darkness around him, he hears the soft flutter of wings, and, “Holy shit, _Dean_.”

"Not quite," Dean slurs, before he can stop himself. Crowley’s face appears above him, sharp and pale as the moon against the gloom of the cave, eyes wide and luminous gold. It’s nice to see a familiar face and all, but Dean would really like someone with the ability to un-impale him right now. “Az,” he grits out.

Crowley shakes his head. “Looking for Sam. And for fuck’s sake, don’t talk.” He has one hand resting in the junction of Dean’s neck and shoulder, just above the collar of his jacket (which is probably ruined too, as if this day could get any fucking worse), and raises the other to carefully cup Dean’s face, thumb gently tracing the line of Dean’s cheekbone. As he does, the pain begins to ebb away. Dean can still feel the injuries, but in a detached, scientific kind of way, like his mind doesn’t belong to his body anymore. He can also breathe again, which is nice. “Better?” Crowley asks, not taking his hands away.

“Crowley,” Dean says, managing a grin (though with his teeth covered in blood, it probably looks more gruesome than he intended). He brings one hand up to clasp Crowley’s wrist, and the pulse there is a steady, reassuring drumbeat against his index finger. “You know, if y’wanna touch the goods, you have to ask me out first.”

Crowley laughs breathlessly. “Shut the fuck up, Winchester.” He closes his eyes then, smile sliding off, and begins murmuring something in a language Dean doesn’t understand, yet recognises somehow.

“Latin?” Dean asks quietly.

“Enochian,” Crowley replies exasperatedly, not missing a beat. “Now hush.” _Enochian_ , Dean thinks, slightly awed, as Crowley resumes his prayer-chant-whatever. Slightly disappointed, too, because for the language of angels, it sure does sound a lot like some drunken mashup of Latin and German, with a little Hebrew thrown in here and there for flavour.

Eventually, Dean realises that Crowley is saying the same phrase over and over again, and that his fingers are digging into his shoulder hard enough to bruise, and wonders vaguely if he should be concerned, because nothing seems to be happening. He’s about to ask (nobody’s ever claimed Dean Winchester has any self-restraint, either) when Crowley opens his eyes, and Dean’s words catch in his throat, because Crowley’s eyes are _glowing_. Not that luminous glinty thing they do when it’s dark, but actually, honest-to-God (Satan?) glowing, pure and gold and blinding, like little stars.

A tendril of their light snakes out, curling lazily in the air as it drifts towards Dean’s face and brushes gently against his cheek. He blinks, and realises there are tears on his face. The light draws back, and he goes to reach for it, but is distracted by the sudden, unreal feeling of his legs _unbreaking_.

He gasps, lurching up on his elbows to look, just in time to see the iron rod in his stomach explode into dust. There’s no hole, no blood; the only sign it was ever there at all is a small round hole in his T-shirt. “Holy shit,” Dean says. He slumps back down to the ground, flat on his back, to take in a few deep breaths and the fact that he’s fucking _alive_. “Holy shit.”

“Not quite,” Crowley says hoarsely, then tips abruptly out of view. Dean sits up, fast enough to make his head spin, to find Crowley on hands and knees, curled over and clutching at his stomach like it hurts.

“Whoa, hey,” he says, scrambling to Crowley’s side. “You okay?”

“Peachy,” Crowley wheezes. At Dean’s annoyed sound, he rolls his eyes. “It’s been a long time since I’ve done this. Takes a lot out of you.”

Dean hovers uncertainly for a moment, then brings his hands down to rest on Crowley’s shoulders, frowning when he feels them trembling. “Az always makes it look easy.”

“That’s because it is, usually,” Crowley replies quietly. “But you were dying, Dean. Your soul was--falling apart. I had to stitch _it_ back together, along with your body.”

Dean hesitates a moment, biting his lip as he tries to decide whether or not he should say what he wants to say, then throws caution to the wind. “Is that what you did to Sam? Stitched his soul back together?”

Crowley straightens slightly, shaking his head. His breath is coming easier now. “Sam was dead. That was just a question of sticking his soul back where it belonged. It’s pretty simple. This, well.” He gestures vaguely, as if to encompass the entirety of the current situation. Dean gets it.

“So how come you never heal us?” Dean asks. “If it’s easy.”

Crowley raises his eyebrows. “Maybe I like seeing you suffer.” He sits back on his heels, easing out a breath, then holds a hand out to Dean. “Help me up?”

Dean does, then steps away, giving Crowley a moment to brush off his jeans and his dignity. He’s squinting into the darkness in search of an exit when the knowledge appears in his brain, fully-formed, like someone took off the top of his skull and dropped it there. “Oh my God,” he says.

Crowley looks at him, startled, then relaxes when he sees the grin spreading on Dean’s face. “What?” he asks warily.

“I know why you never heal us,” Dean says. He’s pretty sure his smile is about to split his face in two.

Crowley folds his arms across his chest, unimpressed. “Oh? Enlighten me.”

“You don’t want us to see that you’re worried about us,” Dean announces triumphantly, like the detective summing up the case to the police chief in the final scene. Crowley scoffs dismissively, but Dean knows he’s got him. “Holy shit, you little _dork_!”

Crowley throws his hands up. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard, but sure. Believe what you want to.”

Dean’s cheeks hurt, but he makes himself rein the grin in to say, with a sincerity that swells in his chest, “Thank you. I mean it.”

Crowley nods, scuffing his shoe against the ground, like he always does when he’s embarrassed. “I do seem to be making a habit out of saving your hides. What would you do without me?”

“Crash and burn, definitely,” Dean replies, only half-sarcastic.

Crowley looks at him, pensive, and seems about to say something when a voice calls down from above, sounding like goddamn church bells to Dean’s weary mind. “Dean? Dean!”

“Down here, Sam!” Dean bellows back, happily ignoring Crowley’s wince. “We’re fine!”

“Hang on,” Sam yells. “I’ll find a rope or something.”

Crowley makes a disgusted noise, and holds out his hand to Dean. Dean takes it and blinks. Then he’s standing behind Sam, back on the ledge at the top of the shaft. “No need,” he says, and revels in the way Sam jumps about three feet in the air as he spins. “You gank the fucker?”

Sam shakes his head, shoving a hand through his floppy hair. He’s rumpled and filthy, but smiling. “Az. Fried it with holy wrath, or whatever. It was like a fireworks show. Kind of awesome, actually. He’s out cleansing the area. You guys okay?” His eyes skip over Dean, and then Crowley, and Dean realises that he’s still holding Crowley’s hand. He drops it like it’s hot and clears his throat.

“Peachy,” he says to Sam (who’s doing that squinty forehead thing that means he’s not buying Dean’s shit for a single moment, but Dean can’t bring himself to care). Next to him, Crowley sighs. Dean just beams.

**Author's Note:**

> Crowley is a tsundere I don't make the rules ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


End file.
